need to grow older with a girl like you
by maddieclaybourne
Summary: yeah, i'd rather be with you, say you want the same thing too/ or cat/beck post hollywood arts.


_Author's Note: This came from having "I'd Rather Be With You" by Joshua Radin on repeat and this tumblr post; daniellamonets tumblr com /post/ 26641938623 / the-first-time-he-sees-her-its-on-a-movie-screen, which is an alternate universe Beck and Jade drabble written by a writer named Brea._

**~need to grow older with a girl like you~**

**beck oliver/cat valentine**

**victorious**

The first time you see Cat Valentine after you've both graduated from Hollywood Arts, is on a movie screen.

For a brief moment, you don't even realize it's her.

Then she smiles and it's like having a solar flare from the sun burst directly in front of your eyes. The brightness of not_ just_ her smile [as big and cheerful as you remember], but of _her_ leaves you breathless. It's, like, your heart's stopped inside your chest and _only_ the sound of her [still] airy, musical voice could command it to beat again.

Even without her signature unnaturally red velvet colored hair, she outshines everyone she's sharing the screen with. Like, she's the sun and even though they're stars no matter how bright they all burn, she'll burn brighter.

If someone asked you what the movie was about, you couldn't tell them.

All you were focused on was Cat.

Every move she made, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, captured your attention like nothing ever had before. It was as if she were glittering like the North Star on the deepest, darkest night; your eyes could only focus on her, there was nothing else.

How you're moving, you don't really know. You're not stable, you know that much. Your legs are shaking because it's, like, she's too much for you. Or you just realized she's _always_ been too much for you. Even when every girl at Hollywood Arts thought _you_ were the prize.

But really, and yeah you're just realizing this _now_, she had always been the prize, hadn't she? She was the unattainable one. Burning so bright, streaking through the hallways like a shooting star, bursting on stage like her own fireworks display, that none of you could have ever hoped to catch her.

Shaking your head, you run your fingers through your hair and wonder if the only glimpses you'll catch of her now will be as one of her _many_ admirers who are rendered paralyzed and enamored by her otherworldly brightness on the big screen?

You're not wrong, but you're not exactly right either.

* * *

The next time you see Cat, isn't on the big screen.

No, it's at an industry party you've been dragged to by friends-of-friends. You're on the fringes of the scene. Not yet ready to make the leap from small indies and plays to big budget blockbusters. Being the next so-and-so isn't really all that appealing to you.

But she's not alone.

She's, just as you predicted, surrounded by her many admirers. All clamoring for just the chance to see only a glimpse of all that glittering, sparkling unreal brightness that she emits with no effort whatsoever.

You're not sure if she catches your eye first or if it's the other way around.

Her doe eyes flicker across your face and her perfectly shaped brows furrow, almost like she's trying to place you, to remember how you used to fit in her life before all of this. Her eyes go wide and she claps a dainty little hand over her mouth before a high-pitched squeal of pure joy leaps from her tiny frame and not even her pretty red dress or her sparkling high heels can stop her from running at you like you're back in the halls of Hollywood Arts and she can't wait to shine the world's brightest key chain in your eyes.

Your memories are skewed by how you're thinking of her now, but back then you're sure you thought she out shined that ridiculous key chain.

She collides with your taller, stronger frame but it's you who's almost knocked backwards.

"Beck!" She yelps, like you're worthy of being within miles of her, let alone _actually_ having every inch of her pressed against every inch of you.

You're immediately breathless from having her _so_ close.

Through the fabric of her dress and your shirt and pants, you can feel her skin; silky smooth and its warmth seeping through everything all the way to your bones and your blood, twisting and surging in your veins. Her smell of strawberries and vanilla flows to your nose as she reaches up and pulls you even closer, arms winding tight around your neck and because you're so much taller, your head falls forward right into the length of skin where her collarbone meets her shoulder.

She hugs you tight one last time and lets go, stepping back and it takes all you have not to reach out and pull her back to you.

Already you're missing being surrounded by everything she is; all of her light, her effortless brightness, the scent of her hair and how you're able to feel _her_ even through the layers of your clothes.

"Hey."

There are a million thoughts running through your head, each one slipping away like grains of sand through your hands before you can get a grip and say something that could potentially charm her like you used to be able to in high school.

But you can only manage three letters. Anything more and you'd trip over your own tongue because she's _right there_ in front of you in all of her otherworldly brightness and she _is_ too much for you.

She giggles from behind her dainty hand and you take assurance in her multi-colored nail polish. It makes you think she's not as far out of your reach as she seems. She doesn't say anything, she just grabs for your hand that's at your side and drags you through the crowd until you're outside.

* * *

A lock of her now rich, chocolate hair slips from its high ponytail, and on instinct you reach out to push it behind her ear. Your fingers slide down the smooth curve of her cheek, lingering underneath her chin, almost like you're afraid if you stop touching her, if you pull your fingers away, she'll disappear.

"Sometimes I miss my old hair." She murmurs, strawberry lips pouting briefly. "Having brown hair doesn't make me feel as pretty. At least my brother's stopped trying to eat it, though."

You fight the urge to laugh as loudly as you ever have. You swallow so you don't ask her if she's ever looked in a mirror before. You know that it was never her unnaturally colored red velvet hair that made her who she was.

And yeah, it took you seeing her light up a movie screen to realize that, but does when you realized how incredible she really is matter?

The courtyard where you are isn't lit very well, but as you turn too look at her, but that doesn't mean anything. It's like she has her own personal spotlight that follows her everywhere. The milky glow of the moon that's hanging in the inky, black sky, highlights every smooth curve of her face, but you know she's glowing all on her own. The moon's just making it more obvious; how breathtaking she really is, and you're not even sure _how_ you're breathing right now.

Just being this close makes your heart pound at seventeen times its normal speed, and it's only worse when her tiny fingers glide across yours and sparks go shooting up your arm. She's peering up at you through thick fans of velvet lashes and your eyes are instantly drawn to her lips; looking so soft, warm and you just know they taste like everything you've ever wanted or could ever want.

You've always relied on your instincts. You've never been one to over analyze anything. You would just dive right in and worry about whatever consequences came your way later.

So you don't think; you just mold your palm to the curve of her cheek and tilt her head up a little more, and press your lips to hers. You were _exactly_ right this time. Her lips do taste like everything you've ever wanted and could ever want, but as they gently move against yours and her little hands slide up your chest to wrap around your neck and bring you close her, you know they taste like _so much more_.

When it's over and your eyes open, for half of a heart pounding second, you think she'll be gone.

Because she _is_ too good to be true and something not quite real, but at the same time she's the realest thing you've ever tasted, felt, held and been in the presence of.

She hasn't disappeared, she's still right there, practically in your lap and her ponytail's not so tight and smooth anymore and her lipgloss is smudged, but even when she's looking so real, she looks like it's impossible for her to be. Her tongue slips from her lips, like she's trying to capture your taste, and you shake your head; doesn't she know it should be other way around? You should be trying to capture what little of her essence that you can, any crumb or scrap that she's willing to offer.

Not that you need to. You're sure you'll be tasting everything, anything, something that's so much more, that hint of pineapple and pure Caterina Valentine for the rest of your life.

You don't know how, but you're sure you'll be seeing her again, and you don't just mean on a movie screen in a theatre.

Though, you _know_ you'll be seeing her there too.

She has the potential to be like grains of sand, to slip through your fingers before you can get a grip, but you're not going to let that happen.

Now that you've seen her, you can't go back to the way things were. She lit up every corner of your universe, has seeped past your skin and is ingrained in your bones and flowing through your veins, and there's no coming back from that. There's no way to undo how she makes you feel.

"I'll see you again, right?"

There's a hint of fear in her musical voice, and you're back to wanting to laugh out loud. Because isn't that supposed to be your line? Aren't _you_ supposed to be wondering if you'll ever see her again?

You laugh, but it's under your breath and reflexively your fingers glide through your hair. You hold her darker gaze with your lighter one and give her your best charming grin and say, "I'm counting on seeing you again, Cat, so I hope you'll return the favor."

"Yay!" She's bouncing and clapping, like you've made her year and you just shake your head.

Because she's the one who's made yours.


End file.
